


The Words You Say

by SLq



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Fix-It, M/M, Season/Series 05 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-23 14:07:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7466280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SLq/pseuds/SLq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harold Finch does not move on. </p>
<p>Fortunately for him, neither does John Reese.</p>
<p>
  <em>Harold unlocks the door and steps into the Library. He pauses there, just beyond the threshold, and breathes it all in. Stale air and dust, old paper and worn leather. Home. He closes his eyes so he does not have to see the empty room.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>"I miss you," Harold tells the darkness behind his eyelids.</em>
</p>
<p> <em>"Finch," the darkness growls back, low and dangerous and impossibly familiar, "What the hell did you do?"</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Words You Say

Harold does not move on.

He tries. Obviously, painstakingly - one foot over the other, stiff upper lip. It is...painful to look at.

It is painful to be around.

"You are different, Harold."

Harold smiles a small, broken smile. It is the only kind he has now. Grace swallows over the lump building in her throat, blinks twice. Her lashes are wet. Across the table, Harold's mouth softens.

"You always were," Grace says before Harold can apologize for his own grief. "In a good way. In a wonderful way, Harold. Only it is no longer - you are no longer-" her voice stutters and try as she might, she cannot bring herself to say the rest.

She never thought she would have to say it at all, with Harold.

Harold covers her hand with his. Grace turns her palm and links their fingers. She looks at Harold, hopeful despite herself. Harold's eyes are on their hands, wide and unseeing behind the lenses of his glasses. The lump in Grace's throat swells painfully.

"You deserve better, Miss Hendricks." Grace flinches. Harold does not notice. And Harold notices _everything_. "I have been terribly selfish."

A part of her had expected an argument. Wanted one, even - a primal desire to be pursued and fought for, even when she no longer wishes to be won. The rest of her is simply tired.

"You haven't. I would have liked you to be." Harold blinks slowly, visibly pulling himself back into the present. Grace smiles at him, as gently as she knows how. "You do not want this, Harold." _Me. You do not want me_. She does not say this either. She does not want Harold to hurt over something that no longer pains her.

Harold looks at her and looks at her, studying every nuance of her expression. Grace squeezes his hand once and pulls away. Harold lets her.

"There is nothing to fix, Harold," she tells him. "We aren't broken."

Harold bows his head briefly, abashed. "I did not mean to imply that you are, Miss Hendricks."

"Neither are you."

"I do not believe I said that, either." The hollow smile is back. Grace narrows her eyes at it.

"You are letting go on purpose. I know that you are grieving, I know that something - something terrible must have happened but Harold, I also know _you_. You could have moved past it, if you wanted to." Grace pauses for breath. Harold watches her, face blank. His hand rests next to a dainty teacup. He had not drank from it, not once.

_Don't you see?_ Grace thinks desperately; _Don't you see what you are doing?_

"I am afraid for you, Harold. I am afraid that you'll keep living like this, that you'll keep pulling back until there's no way to reach you. Until you get so lost in codes and cables and computers, you decide to live in your machines instead."

A tremor passes over Harold's lips. It is a slip in control - real and lovely, despite being born out of pain.

"It was not my intention to cause you grief." Harold's voice is steady enough, but his eyes flicker uneasily from Grace to his plate to the surrounding tables. He will start making his excuses soon, Grace thinks. He will pay for breakfast, escort her home. Then he will slip out of her life like he had never been there to begin with. She won't even get to say goodbye.

"I know. Harold, I know that, and don't you dare start avoiding me again!" Harold blinks at her. His _who, me?_ expression does nothing at all to hide the caught-out guilt in his eyes. Grace sighs, exasperated but also so fond her heart hurts. "We are friends, Harold. I love you. I want to see you and be with you and _help you_ , you stubborn, brilliant man."

Harold coughs delicately. His cheeks are a bit ruddy. Grace smothers a dizzy giggle. She feels lighter than she had in months. "Have you told them how you feel?"

Harold stills. His mind spins and spins, weighs possibilities and variables. But he had promised Grace the truth and in the end he simply shakes his head.

"You should. It will help you. I'm sure they would like to know, too." _They_ , yes, not _she_ because Grace is neither stupid nor deaf and nightmares spill secrets even when they belong to Harold Finch.

It is not _they_ , either, but that is not for Grace to bring up.

Harold's lips thin. He licks them once. "It is too late for that, I fear."

"You should still tell them. Words are important, Harold. They have power." Grace's smile is unsteady. "Like magic. They'll hear them, wherever they are."

Harold drinks his cold tea and says nothing.

 

He does think about it, however.

 

He thinks about it as he sits at yet another small desk in yet another gray cubicle, staring at a screen made of zeroes and ones. He thinks about it as Bear takes him to a walk around the park. He thinks about it as he climbs a narrow staircase to a place that belongs in a different, happier life.

He has not stopped thinking about it since he watched John Reese fall so others could keep on standing.

Harold grips the banister. The world tips and shifts around him in bursts of gold and black. He gasps for air. His hip aches. Harold berates himself for growing soft, useless, stupidly sentimental. There is nothing left for him here.

"I miss you," Harold says out loud.

The silence is stifling.

Harold unlocks the door and steps into the Library. He pauses there, just beyond the threshold, and breathes it all in. Stale air and dust, old paper and worn leather. Home. He closes his eyes so he does not have to see the empty room.

"I miss you," Harold tells the darkness behind his eyelids.

"Finch," the darkness growls back, low and dangerous and impossibly familiar, "What the hell did you do?"

Harold's eyes snap open. They widen and widen, eyebrows lifting, mouth parting. His mind is silent.

"Oh. Oh, dear."

When the world whirls to black this time, Harold tips right along with it.

Right into John Reese's arms.

 

Harold comes to in increments. He blinks at a familiar ceiling, winces at the press of hard bed springs against sore muscles.

"Killer on the back, isn't it?"

Harold pushes up and bodily turns toward the voice.

"You are very persistent, for a hallucination," he tells the man sitting by the bed.

The man's lips press over a smile. Harold's throat tightens enough to whiten his vision briefly. "Right," he mutters and swings his legs off the bed. "Enough of this."

"Harold." Harold keeps walking. Perhaps he should check himself into a hospital. See a doctor, at the very least. The correlation between episodes of paracusia and the discovery of latent psychotic disorders is highly positive.

Harold is quite disturbed to find himself reluctant to medicate the illusion of John Reese away.

A hand wraps around Harold's wrist. Harold blinks at it, follows its length up a muscled arm and to a terribly missed face. Not-John is wearing a white tee and jeans, both a bit worse for wear. His eyes are clear, his face cleanly shaved. Harold's heart stutters in his chest.

"Mr. Finch, I understand you are a busy man but I'd _highly appreciate_ it if you-" not-John's voice breaks for a brief moment. "Harold?"

Harold hums and slides his hands from not-John's cheeks into not-John's hair. "Tactile delusions, as well," he notes and fails to feel concerned. "Prognosis deteriorating."

Not-John's lovely, steel-gray eyes narrow. "Harold, excuse me but what the fuck are you talking abo _ummmph._ "

Not-John's lips may not be real, but they are still awfully soft.

A staggered breath, a beat of silence. Then the lips part and a hot, wet tongue traces the seam of Harold's mouth and _thrusts inside_ -

Harold breaks away with a gasp. Large hands grip him at the elbows, steadying him.

"You are real," he says numbly.

John Reese blinks back at him with hooded eyes. His lips glisten, spit-slick.

"You didn't know."

 Harold shakes his head once. His legs bend at the knees, nerveless.

"Jesus, sorry." The room spins and Harold is suddenly being lowered into the chair not - the chair _John Reese_ had been sitting into. John kneels at his side. "I really thought-" He cuts himself off. A hand tips Harold's head up so John can examine his eyes. Another slides under Harold's shirt cuff to press over his wrist. "You going to pass out on me again?"

"I am fine, Mr. R-Reese."

"You aren't blinking."

Harold blinks once, quick enough to feel it. John is still there. Harold's chest unclenches.

"There we go. Breathe. Breathing is good."

"Mr. Reese, you..." Harold swallows. " _John_."

"I know. Harold, I-" John's hand has not released Harold's wrist. He slides his palm down until it rests against Harold's, fingers lax. "I thought you knew."

"I assure you, I did not. How is this possible?" John's expression blanks. Harold tangles their fingers. "Mr. Reese, please."

"I don't think sharing is such a good idea," John says. His eyes fall away from Harold's. Harold hears his own blood beat in his temples.

"Mr. Reese, you will tell me what happened and you will _not_ be ashamed about any of it."

John's mouth quirks in a wan smirk. "Won't I, now?" Harold's growl lacks intimidation but does have John smiling his real smile. "It's not pretty," he warns.

"I was not aware beauty was a factor."

John roll his eyes. His grip on Harold's hand tightens.

"I woke up in a test tube."

A chill goes down Harold's spine. He squeezes John's hand, gently urging him on. John's eyes are on Harold's lips and will go no higher.

"It was in a lab of some kind. There were-" John pauses, breathing staggered. His grip on John's hand is nearly painful. "There were other tanks. Huge glass tubes, in rows against a white wall. Mine had cracked. One of the attached pipes had broken and the glass shattered with it. Everything spilled out." John's smile is hollow. "Including me. The rest of the tubes were empty, thank God."

Harold cannot breathe.

"Did you destroy the facility, Mr. Reese?" John nods once. "What of those responsible?"

Gray eyes snap up. Harold looks back, uncaring for the cold hate naked in his expression. John licks his lips.

"It was abandoned. The lab, the whole building. Middle of nowhere Arizona." John rocks forward on his knees. He is almost close enough to press against Harold's thigh. Harold feels the warmth of his body and fights the urge to pull him closer. "Worked out well, in the end. Nobody around to mind the fireworks."

Harold takes a breath. "Mr. Reese - John. Please know that I would have never subjected you to-"

"I know." Harold raises his brows. John's expression turns sheepish. "It was the computers," he says. "There were five of them. Five monitors, each one with the same message." John sways a bit closer. His head bends to press over Harold's left knee. When he speaks, his breath burns through the cloth of Harold's suit to scorch his skin:

" _Thank you, Mr. Reese._ "

Harold inhales sharply. It takes him a moment to realize that the fine shivers wracking his body are borrowed, not his own. Harold sets his free hand over the naked arch of John's neck - slowly, as not to startle. John stiffens at the touch. The shivers stop. Gradually, the man himself relaxes. His head grows heavier as he leans more of his weight into Harold.

Harold shifts his grip on John's nape to urge him closer. John goes, pliant.

"I guess the Machine's not done with me."

"That is not funny, Mr. Reese."

"Oh, it's _Mr. Reese_ when you're angry, hm?"

Harold sighs. "John." John smiles against Harold's knee. The feel of his lips over the wool is...distracting. "Your death was," Harold swallows. John strokes his thumb over the pulse in Harold's wrist, back and forth, calming. Harold pushes on. "It was difficult for me to accept. I know you were content to sacrifice yourself. Logically, I understand that it was the optimal choice in the situation. I would have still gone to my grave regretting its necessity."

John makes a small, displeased sound. Harold threads his fingers in John's hair, scratching gently at the scalp. John relaxes.

"You are not a weapon, John. You are not replaceable. Yet we all used you like you were."

John chuckles humorlessly. His cheek is flat against Harold's upper thigh, nose brushing the inner seam of his opposite leg. "Harold, I am a literal replacement." He lifts his head to regard Harold with a vaguely troubled look. "You do know that, right?"

"I know who you are, Mr. Reese."

John's mouth thins in a frown. "Yeah, but do you know _what_ I am?" Harold holds his eyes, unflinching, unblinking.

"Human beings are the sum of their memories and experiences. You carry those of John Reese." John opens his mouth, brows bunched sullenly. Harold presses his palm over the other man's lips before a self-depreciating remark can make it through. "If you wish for a different name, if you want another life, I will give them to you. Anything you need."

John shakes his head. Harold exhales.

"Then John Reese you are."

John stares at him. He licks his lips, chasing the remnant taste of Harold's skin. Harold flushes and drops his eyes. The gravity of the situation and his own conduct suddenly strikes him. A cold weight settles in his stomach.

"John, I apologize for my behavior. I have taken advantage of your state-"

John's palm, Harold discovers, tastes of sweat and gunpowder. It is not altogether unpleasant. Harold still glares down at the smug man, for appearance's sake. John sunny smile has Harold's severe look melting into one of confused fondness.

"You kissing me is the first good thing that has happened to me since I woke up." Harold tenses. "I remember wanting to do that, before - before I died." John removes his hand from Harold's mouth to tap at his temple. "It's - it's still a bit of a scramble up there, but I remember that. I know that I want to kiss you now. Isn't that enough?" He is smiling, but his shoulders are tense, his eyes on Harold's knees.

_Am I not enough, as I am?_

"More than, Mr. Reese." And if Harold's voice breaks over John's name, there is no one but the two of them to hear.

John glances up. His expression clears, his mouth tugs up, up.

"I have missed you," Harold tells him.

John's, _Me too_ is spoken against Harold's lips.


End file.
